Scoring
by Simon920
Summary: Robin goes to the Gymnastics World Championships. This is a revisit to a theme I've played with before but that's okay.


Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

Please note; the scoring system I'm using here (with 10 being considered a perfect and top score) is no longer in use for international Gymnastics. I've chosen to use the old system simply because it's the one most people are familiar with. The old system was replaced in 2005.

**Scoring**

"Man, that's gotta be a ten—it's gotta."

"Seriously, man, I've never—_never_ seen anyone throw that shit. Infriggingcredible!"

Robin, wearing his mask but otherwise in the American uniform, gave a wary smile to the other gymnasts when he heard the comments and threw a wave to the crowd who were giving him a standing ovation with enough noise to rock the rafters. He hopped down off the platform, joined the rest of his teammates for the obligatory hugs and back slaps then turned to the scoreboard. And waited. And waited. The judges were conferring and that was always either very good or not so much. It could go either way.

The scoreboard flashed his name and number followed by his score for the rings—an 8.45.

An 8.45? That was the kind of score a talented high school gymnast might get if he was having a very good day but on the international circuit that was tantamount to an invitation to seriously rethink your next career move.

Say wha? The crowd erupted into a solid wall of booing, the other athletes turned to the judges and the American coach walked over to the judging table to find out if the judges were, in fact, blind.

They were at World's, the World Gymnastic Championships. The meet was being held in Paris this year and this was the team finals. The US men were up against Russia, Romania, China, Japan and Germany, with the US and China being touted as the earl favorites. Okay, there were some other teams here but none of the others seemed to have a prayer at winning anything and so no one counted them in the mix. Robin had been brought in as a last minute alternate after one of the US men broke a leg late last week and the other alt's were down with flu and mono. He'd tried to beg off and made it clear to the American coaches that he wasn't as up on his routines as he'd like and so might have to make some substitutions with his moves. After a meeting behind closed doors the coaches said they were okay with that, they just wanted the team up to it's full complement. Besides, only five of the six team member's routines would count towards the score so even if he wasn't at his best it should be okay while still allowing them a small cushion for mistakes.

Robin stood there on the edge of the platform, a slight smile on his face, his hands on his hips and with complete calm. He knew exactly what the problem was; he'd just stuck a full twisting triple layout and no one was supposed to be able to do that. It involved the laws of physics—it was considered impossible. He'd turned a new stunt without warning and judges hated that. They were voicing an opinion and making a statement. Luckily Robin knew ahead of time what would probably happen and since he wasn't here for the medals, so long as the rest of the guys nailed their routines, his score didn't matter.

This had been going on all afternoon; he'd managed a 7.65 on the floor, probably because he'd thrown some major ballet moves in between the tricks, saying that he liked the way they flowed better than the usual stiff men's connecting moves. Then he'd somehow made the entire routine look like Balanchine had choreographed it. Even the standard stuff, the passes and the balances seemed lifted from a dance company, yet still worked as advanced, Olympic caliber athletics. Somehow he made it work.

As far as the team itself went, he'd done just fine; he got along well with everyone, he was easy to deal with and made no demands. He was friendly, polite, professional. He didn't grandstand or make any waves; he kept as low a profile as he could with no diva behavior. The simple fact was that he was a publicity magnet but he also happened to be a very good gymnast. It was a win-win situation for both the American team and gymnastics in general and no one was complaining—except the judges. Sure, he'd had that private meeting with the US coaches the morning he'd joined the team and while no one really knew what they'd discussed it was quickly becoming obvious.

It was also now clear to everyone in the arena what the game was; Robin would throw unheard of routines using original and incredibly difficult moves which, because they were new and unsanctioned, wouldn't be counted. He'd only be given credit for the regular stuff and thus his ridiculous scores. In the meantime, he was raising the standards for everyone in the sport. So the situation was that his scores didn't matter, just the tricks he was turning and landing did.

With a small shrug for the benefit of the crowd, he picked up his gym bag and walked over to the next rotation with the other American guys. No one on the regular team could risk this kind of blatant departure from the straight and narrow, but Robin—world famous _Robin_, f'chrissake— could get away with it since he wasn't a member of the usual team and had no desire to be. The other guys had made this their life's work, Robin hadn't. He had nothing to lose.

The next rotation brought Robin's group around to the parallel bars. Robin was the fifth man up. Sitting quietly while he waited, chatting with the rest of the athletes as he did some stretches and idly watched the routines going on around the gym, just hanging out, waiting. When his turn came around he walked up to the platform, acknowledged the judges and began. The entire crowd, as well as the cameras, were trained on him.

He began simply enough with the usual handstands and roll-throughs but then added the new moves, almost looking as though he was making it up as he went along, though that would be this side of impossible. He threw himself into the air, turning flips and pikes and even a layout then catching himself again, keeping the movement going, not interrupting the flow, one move naturally flowing into the next. The final move, his dismount was a double double—two sommies with two twists added on; spinning in two different directions at once and then another stuck landing. His score was an 8.3. By this point of the competition the coaches didn't even bother to complain, they knew the kid would be screwed at every rotation. It didn't matter.

The pommel horse, admittedly his least favorite apparatus, he went easy on the original moves and managed an 8.575, his personal high for the meet.

At the end of four rotations he was in dead last place on every apparatus, and didn't care. Well, except for the Japanese guy who'd fallen twice from the parallels and then took three steps on his landing. Rob had managed to top him by one tenth of a point.

Fifth up for the US team was the vault. Everyone did well, everyone stuck their landings and the vaults all had at least a 9.8 start value or higher. Then Robin stepped up to take his position at the head of the runway, eighty feet from the vaulting table. He was relaxed but focused, ignoring the noise and catcalls from the crowd. Settling himself, mentally preparing, he straightened his body, nodded at the judges and started his run, building to full speed at he reached a point maybe eight feet from the spring board. He turned a perfect roundoff onto the board, his body straight, pushed off the table with both hands and twisted three and a half times in a layout position to an almost stuck landing. There was just the barest of tiny hops at he found his balance, body upright, arms up, smile in place. He clenched his fists for a moment in relief and triumph and made his way back to his team as the knowledgeable audience exploded into cheers, whistles and applause.

The judges looked at one another then down at their monitors, pushing replay and slow-mo over and over. It wasn't supposed to be possible. It wasn't and certainly not by an almost six-foot male gymnast. If anyone it would have to be one of the four and a half-foot tall, seventy-pound women to make this happen and that was still considered an impossibility. Gymnast number one seventy-four had just turned and landed the world's first Yurchenko 3.5 Twist (or, as some called it, an Amanar). Up until today the standard and considered one of the most difficult vaults done—was a 2.5. Turn that, land it cleanly and you had a good chance at an Olympic medal. This show-off, this _acrobat_ had added a full twist without warning; and not even a half twist—he added an entire rotation.

Over in the pit the rest of his team were surrounding the young man, slapping his back, shouting their excitement and congratulations while the American head coach gave the judges a steady look, daring them to cheat the boy out his fair score this time.

They waited while the judges conferred. Everyone waited, Robin sitting down, slipping on his warm-up jacket and taking a drink from his water bottle as he leaned back against the wall, exchanging a few words with the teammates around him.

They waited three minutes, five. The crowd got louder, rhythmic clapping growing into foot stomping and whistles. At eight and a half minutes the score was finally posted: 0.0

Even Robin, who'd taken every score he'd received that day with good humor looked a question at the American coach at that—0.0? The TV microphones picked up his voice as he turned to the team captain seated next to him and quietly asked, 'That seem a little low to you?'

The coach returned from his short conference with the head judge. "You didn't tell them ahead of time what you were doing so you didn't get any credit for the vault." He said it loud enough for the audience and the TV microphones to hear.

The coach was furious, his face red. Robin just nodded in acceptance, clearly not upset and slightly bemused. The noise from the crowd grew louder, building, building and drowning out anything else until all the rotations stopped, the meet brought to a standstill—the clapping and foot stomping seeming to shake the building until Robin began to fear the crowd might get seriously out of control. An official came over and spoke to Robin, not an easy thing with the noise level in the arena. The young man listened for a few seconds then nodded.

Standing, he hopped up onto the vaulting platform and calmly looked around the arena, his hands on his hips. Finally, every eye in the place on him, he gently raised his hands, gesturing the crowd to quiet down, his obvious calm and good humor affecting the audience. Amazingly, within a minute or so the place was silent. He smiled, gave a small shrug that read to the top tier of seats and quietly, though pitching his voice to carry said, "Hey, c'mon, it's just a vault..." He held out his hands in a gesture of asking a question then added, "Let's get on with this, shall we?" The booing was replaced by cheers as he gave a small laugh, a small ripple of laugher started, mixed with applause and, situation defused, the meet went on to the next and last rotation.

The final rotation brought the American team around to the high bar, the glamour event; high flying, releases and twisting, absurdly difficult and dangerous dismounts. The crowd waited impatiently for Robin to take his turn, the meet coming close to a stop as he mounted the platform with the American coach, chalked his hands and jumped straight up to catch the bar, the coach standing by as spotter. Every eye in the place was on him; the rest of the American team gathered close by to se if he was going to pull off the dismount they'd seen him practicing earlier that morning.

No one was disappointed; the giant swings quickly turned into a series of release moves, blind or otherwise which hadn't been done before in competition. Every stunt was carried to it's fullest extension, every twist and flip was crisp, every grip change was sure, legs straight, every toe pointed. The final wind up, a series of stalters and then two fast giants to build speed ended with a perfectly timed release shooting him towards the ceiling. He tucked and spun almost too fast to count the four and a half rotations before he landed with an audible thud on the mats, legs together, arms up in a textbook stick.

This time there was no big grin or laugh, just a satisfied small smile as he privately acknowledged a job well done.

Robin gave a wave to the audience, hopped down from the platform, the cheering from the standing ovation drowning out any other sound, wave after wave of applause, whistles and air horns contributing to the din. Sitting down, he took the grips off his hands, exchanged a few casual words with the gymnast sitting next to him, had a drink from his water bottle while he waited for his score, the rest of the team clearly more anxious than he was. Finally the groan from the crowd caused him to casually glance up to the scoreboard; 6.95, the lowest score of the meet due to the unapproved moves, none of which could be counted—the meet's lowest score, if you didn't count the 0.0 he'd scored for the vault. Robin just smiled at the expected absurd mark and shrugged before picking up his bag and walking over to wait with the rest of the team for the official announcement of the final team standings. The rest of the team had come through with close to perfect routines, but were edged out for the bronze by five hundredths of a point because of a few minor bobbles costing them a couple of tenths here and there. They'd go home empty handed, Robin apologizing to them because he knew—they all knew that if he'd played it straight and followed the rules they may well have won a spot of the victory stand. The team's reactions were mixed but no one blamed him or thought he was grandstanding, they'd all known what he was doing and no one had complained. They'd be back next year…

During the medal ceremony the Chinese, Japanese and Germans lined up to receive their medals. The other competing teams were already back in the locker room changing, showering and planing on what to get for dinner, making plans for an early evening since they'd have more competition the next day when the individual medals would be decided. The meet was over for Robin and he packed all his stuff into his gym duffel; his scores hadn't been high enough for him to qualify for any individual finals.

As the athletes changed they could hear the applause out in the arena slowly getting louder and louder. After a few minutes an official, one of the judges came in and found Robin in a bank of lockers, changed into a pair of worn jeans and just pulling on a clean black tee shirt. The man looked nervous as he spoke to the young man quietly, asking him something, the other men watching but unable to hear. Robin shook his head, negatively answered the man who kept talking, the arena noise getting louder, the stamping and rhythmic clapping becoming an impossible din until finally, after more pleading, Robin reluctantly nodded and allowed the man to lead him back out to the hall.

As soon as he appeared through the doorway the angry booing and whistles changed to applause and cheers until it became almost a physical force. The thrown paper cups and trash became a shower of flowers and stuffed animals aimed at the obviously embarrassed young man. He ducked his head a moment then straightened and raised his chin, smiled and waved to the crowd before turning to the face and applaud the medal platform where the three winning teams waited uncomfortably for some cue as to what to do.

The officials took the opportunity to hand out the medals and flowers to the winners while Robin stood, clapping and leading the crowd in honoring the men who'd been named the winners. Finally, as quickly as possible, the ceremony was over, the three teams waving to the crowd as Robin slowly backed out of sight back to the locker room.

***

Several days later Dick Grayson sat down at the breakfast table to find a copy of the Gotham Times at his place, folded open to the sports page. A quick look showed the paper was a couple of days old and had a recounting of the gymnastics results, complete with a couple of pictures, including one of him in a perfect handstand on the parallels. The unfair scoring was given prominent space complete with editorial comment. A filled plate was silently put in front of him.

"I have no desire to pry, but forgive my curiosity; doesn't this sort of thing frustrate you? I fear the judges failed to give you any real credit for what you accomplished, surely that must grate."

Dick shook his head, "Scores don't matter to me, you know that. They never have."

"Then why put yourself through endless hours of training only to be undervalued for your efforts?"

He shrugged then tried to articulate. "It's like when I was still in the circus. Y'know?"

"You mean performing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean stopping bad guys is cool and I love that I can do it but I know I'm good at the gymnastics—at the stunts and the moves, but a lot of guys can do that. _I_ can work a crowd and I'm really good at it, always have been, even when I was a little kid." He twisted his napkin a little and chewed his lip, a little embarrassed. "And when I managed to diffuse the crowd, stopped it from turning into a mob, it's just such a damn rush…It's not an ego thing—well..." He picked up a glass of orange juice and suddenly smiled. "Okay, maybe there's _some_ ego there."

Alfred stood, considering Dick as he sat there, suddenly understanding.

"You miss it, don't you?"

"God, I love it so much." He smiled in admission of the truth. "The crowds, the applause and knowing I can still work an audience like that."

Alfred nodded, of course. "Well, then I say that you should enjoy it, Master Dick. In my opinion you've quite more than earned it." He refilled the orange juice glass. "It says here that not only did you prevent a riot, but that the moves you landed will be likely added to the approved list sooner than one would normally expect, they're being reviewed this week at some International Gymnastics Committee meeting. It seems you have quite a bit to be proud of, shall I arrange your long-range schedule to allow you free time for next year's meet?"

Dick smiled and shook his head. "Thanks, but 'been there, done that. I don't have anything to prove."

Alfred nodded and turned away; the boy was more than right.

12/25/08

7


End file.
